


Bills, Bills, Bills (or, Five Times Sherlock Pays for Something Without Telling John and One Time John Says Something About It)

by littlemissaily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemissaily/pseuds/littlemissaily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't expect much from Sherlock by way of paying for things, and this really doesn't bother him at all. But, he can get used to the idea of Sherlock being helpful, maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bills, Bills, Bills (or, Five Times Sherlock Pays for Something Without Telling John and One Time John Says Something About It)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of an old fill I did over a year back, for the SherlockBBC-fic group on livejournal.  
> I figured I'd post it over here, since I've started back in fic again.  
> Rating is for a slight mentions of sex and violence.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own or have any hand in the actual television show Sherlock. This piece is a work of fiction, created for fun and not profit.

**1.**  
  
John has just sat down at the desk in the living room when Sherlock walks in. John had intended to go through the day's mail -- in fact, he already has the electricity bill open and is perusing it -- but Sherlock is apparently disagreeable to that. God so help it if the poor doctor actually wants to get something done in this flat.  
  
Sherlock swiftly crosses the room -- doesn't even bother shedding his coat, despite the heater being up in full -- and snatches the letters out of John's hands. He literally _snatches_ them. John barely has the thought to sputter before Sherlock goes through all the mail like he already knows what each of them is. (Knowing him, he might know simply from noticing the scent of the paper or something like that.)  
  
"Letter from Aunt who only ever asks for money: read for information. Giveaway scam: perpetrated by some down-and-out teenager, unnecessary to investigate further. Request to attend government social: ploy by Mycroft to spy, ignore. Coupons for restaurants in London: all sub-par, toss. Four letters for you, John: two from friends or family, one pension check from the military, and what appears to be an advertisement for engagement rings. Odd, didn't think anyone actually wrote letters these days but the horribly nutty, like my aunt." He drops all of the letters to the floor as he goes through them, with the exception of that last four, which he passes calmly to John as he looks at the piece of already opened mail intently. "Electricity bill: very nice paper, such a waste really. Ah, yes, I know what to do with this." He quickly scurries off into the kitchen, not that anyone would usually describe him as scurrying -- probably too undignified or somehow unintelligent for him.  
  
John is so focused on the letter from his mum that he almost doesn't catch Sherlock's shift of voice as he talks about the electricity bill. That's Sherlock's experimenting voice. The last that John heard it, Sherlock had chosen to test blood stains on John's favorite tie. That voice is not a good voice.  
  
John cautiously walks into the kitchen, finding Sherlock leaned on the counter with a dropper in hand over what must be their electricity bill and a vial of clear liquid beside it. Sherlock releases evenly placed, small drops across the paper and watches it carefully. John finally finds the voice to hedge, "Sherlock, what -- err -- what are you doing, exactly, with our electricity bill?"  
  
"Ah, John, an acquaintance of mine sent me this interesting chemical he's been testing. When in small drops, it evaporates extremely quickly and it dissolves the ink straight out of paper. When it works, it almost appears like the text is burning itself right off the page and disappearing in small wisps of smoke. Absolutely fascinating. I've been wanting to test this on printed paper. With all of this laser-jet printing now, there isn't even an imprint left once the print evaporates." He lifts the paper to show John, with an almost manic light to his eyes and that slight twitch to the right corner of his lips. It's almost endearing, until John realizes that Sherlock has just spirited away their electricity bill, which John hadn't even gotten the chance to check yet. "See? I've salvaged a very well-made but horribly wasted sheet of paper." The paper is entirely blank.  
  
"Sherlock, did you even check how much we owe the electric company before you did that? Now I'll have to go request them for another bill. Honestly, couldn't you have used that government invitation or the giveaway scam or whatever?" John is resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands.  
  
"Now why would I do that? Those were cheaply made paper, no need to save them. They're better off printed on. And no, I didn't bother checking the amount; pointless information. Also, why would you need to request another bill?" Sherlock actually almost looks confused. Again, it'd be endearing if not for the fact that he has just erased their _bloody electric bill_.  
  
"To pay it, Sherlock. I need to know the amount if we want to actually have lights here, or a fridge to keep your bloody body parts from decomposing."  
  
"Oh, that, I already paid for it online. I even set up an account so it automatically takes it from my checking each month. Now, no more wasted paper. Rather convenient really. I'd call it intelligent if it weren't for the fact that practicality is never really intelligence so much as common sense."  
  
If John didn't know any better, he'd say that Sherlock looked very smug with himself in that moment. But he's still registering the fact that Sherlock has paid the electricity, is apparently going to continue paying the electricity. _Well, that's odd_ , John thinks, but he figures he can get used to it.

 

* * *

 

**2.**  
  
It's the end of what has been a very long week. Sherlock had opened and closed a new case, on Monday and last night (Thursday) respectively. If Sherlock has a case, that means that John also has a case, on top of his own job at the clinic. John doubts Sherlock is at his best either, but John is rather focused on the fact that he, himself, is very, very tired. And in being this busy and tired, he has forgotten to bring the monthly check down to Mrs. Hudson. She would forgive them missing rent for months, honestly -- she adores Sherlock that much and is learning to be quite fond of John as well -- but John's not one to take advantage and it's not as if Sherlock would take care of it. A laugh, that idea.  
  
John knocks politely on Mrs. Hudson's door. He mastered the art of doing everything in the least imposing way possible. When the door slips open, he calls as cheerfully as he can manage, "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry for the intrusion."  
  
"Oh, not at all, Dear, not at all. Sherlock's just slipped out maybe 10 minutes ago. Said he needed to think. Wouldn't stop muttering the word 'bored'. Poor dear, must've been an amazing case if he's having withdrawals so quickly." _Withdrawals_ , that's one way of putting it. "Ah, anyway, what can I help you with, Doctor?"  
  
John pulls out an envelope from his inner-coat pocket. "I realized I forgot to bring down the flat check to you earlier this week. I hope it's no problem." He scratches the back of his head sheepishly and holds the check in the air between them.  
  
"Ah, John, no need to apologize. It's quite all right. Besides, Sherlock already paid this month's rent. In fact, he paid ahead for the next six months. Scotland Yard must have given him quite some compensation for his help this time around."  
  
She has a fond smile and a slight sparkle to her eye. It reminds John of the look on Harry's face every time she watches Pride and Prejudice and Mr. Darcy confesses his love for Elizabeth. John's not sure if he should be uncomfortable about this or not, but he is. And then it registers in his mind that Sherlock, Sherlock _I-delete-all-information-not-pertaining-to-a-case-which-means-he-never-pays-bills_ Holmes, has yet again _paid one of their bills_ , and is showing signs of paying it in the future.  
  
This scratches at the back of John's mind for some reason. He explains it off to the fact that he doesn't like that he isn't paying at least one of the major bills for their flat. He has his own means of income, after all. He can help pay for it. Does Sherlock think he can't afford it? Sherlock's the one that lives off of favors half of the time.  
  
John's thought process is derailed by a polite cough behind him. Sherlock has apparently returned. "John, why are you standing mindlessly in front of Mrs. Hudson's door?" It's then John realizes that, at some point, Mrs. Hudson has went back into her flat and shut the door.  
  
John quickly slips the check back into his coat, ignoring the amused flicker of Sherlock's eyes over the movement of his hands. "We were just having a pleasant conversation."  
  
"Lovely," Sherlock enunciates with even more amusement. "What are you feeling for dinner?"  
  
John stores away his thoughts for now and doesn't bother to question why it is that Sherlock asks his opinion when he already has a bag of Indian take-out in hand. It's probably nothing anyway.

 

* * *

  
**3.**  
  
John thinks he may be noticing a trend when Sherlock greets him at the door after a grocery run the next week.  
  
"Ah, you actually got milk. The one thing I forgot. Got distracted by the odd flavors of yogurt. Did you know they have Earl Gray and scones as a flavor now? Who would want that when you could have an actual cuppa?"  
  
Sherlock is actually helping to unpack the groceries as he says this all. John's almost getting used to the idea of his flatmate being helpful. John is not used to seeing a refrigerator already half-full with something besides Sherlock's "experiments". Also, if he's not mistaken, all the dishes have been done.  
  
"I, ah, no, I didn't realize that. You were at the grocery store? What were you doing? Is this connected to the new case somehow?" John is honestly perplexed.  
  
John almost thinks that Sherlock looks eager, but that's hardly possible. He's probably on some adrenaline high. Had he slept last night?  
  
"What? No. I just realized we were short of food and I was done testing that knee cap from the other day. So I tossed it out and went to buy some things. I got apples. They had just brought in a new shipment. You like apples, don't you?"  
  
"I, well, yes, in fact, I bought some myself." He pulls out a sack of them after he says this. Might as well tackle this head on. "I, ahm, Sherlock, are you feeling all right? You've been acting a bit odd lately."  
  
Sherlock pauses in placing some canned soup in the cabinet. John tries to hold a straight face when looking at his flatmate with a slightly confused -- maybe even worried -- look on his face and a can of tomato soup in hand. It reminds John of his younger patients when he asks them if they're sexually active, which is admittedly a very strange connection.  
  
"Yes, of course. I can't say I've been acting any more unusual than any other time. After all, everyone thinks I act oddly all the time." He swiftly turns away and continues putting away soup. "Honestly, John, getting a bit paranoid are we? Has Mycroft been kidnapping you again? I do hope you took him up on his offer this time. Mycroft could pay you enough that you wouldn't have to worry about that pointless clinic job. Practically charity, what you're doing there."  
  
He continues to mutter to himself and John falls into his own thought. This is evasive behavior. Definitively evasive behavior, but also potentially illuminating.  
  
When John goes to check the fridge later, he finds that everything Sherlock had bought appears to be John's favorite snacks. How did Sherlock even know about his love for lime-flavored gelatin? ( _Dear God, there's six packs of it in there._ ) The cabinets prove to be the same.  
  
John cringes to be thinking like this, but he needs more data for his deduction.

 

* * *

  
**4.**  
  
While John has begun suspecting that Sherlock is up to something, he is honestly not expecting this one. And he would not have discovered this one if not for his phone malfunctioning. Whatever Sherlock is doing, he had planned this one well.  
  
"What do you mean I'm no longer on your phone network? How could that have possibly changed? And if I don't have a phone network, how could I possibly be talking to you right now?" John realizes that he's starting to sound distressed, but really, his phone keeps doing weird things. John feels that his phone _should_ have better signal around his office in the clinic -- and it had up until a week ago -- but suddenly he can barely get a text message out, much less make a call to Harry or his mum or _anyone_. Except Sherlock, that is; somehow, John always has perfect signal when he's trying to call the consulting detective. And that's when it strikes him. "Ah, I apologize for imposing on your time. I just realized something. I, ah, thank you. Yes. Goodbye."  
  
John fiddles with the end call button, takes a deep breath, and then goes ahead to make a new call. After four rings, John hears the tell-tale click of the phone being answered.  
  
"Good evening, John." His sister sounds a little too amused, like she knows exactly why he's calling, which she probably does because she's conspiratorial like that and she's probably in on whatever Sherlock is doing, the traitorous girl.  
  
It's then that John realizes that he has yet to respond to her and that he may be huffing just a bit. He takes another deep breath and says as calmly as he can, "Good evening, Harriet."  
  
"Harriet?" She pauses to practically caw with laughter. She is definitely in on Sherlock's plan. "Aha, am I in trouble? Should've known you'd only call me to get angry. Well, what is it this time?"  
  
John's almost not certain he should go forward at this point. She doesn't sound drunk this time, so maybe she'll be more receptive and less likely to lash out, but being sober may also just make her more likely to logically keep him from the point of this phone call. She's almost as skilled as Sherlock in her skills of evasion -- Sherlock's only worse in that you oftentimes don't realize he's evading until much later on. John figures he should just try to dive in first. "Is there a reason you've removed me from our mobile plan?"  
  
There's a slight snigger to her tone that is starting to bother John. "Oh, I didn't remove you, brother-mine. You were switched from our network and plan to another. That's all."  
  
She is enjoying this too much. John is resisting the urge to bang his head against his bedroom wall. "And whose plan am I on, now, since it's clearly not my own?"  
  
"Oh, I think you know whose plan it is. I don't know why you'd ask that rather than the better 'why'." He can imagine the evil smile on her face. Perhaps she is worse than Sherlock.  
  
He huffs out a sigh and hopes that his pout isn't apparent across the phone line. "I don't suppose you'd actually answer me if I asked you why, would you?"  
  
"Ha! True, I probably wouldn't. Anyway, why don't you ask your lovely boyfriend? You two should learn to communicate."  
  
John resists the urge to insist that Sherlock is not his boyfriend. He won't give Harry the satisfaction. "All right. Thank you, Harry. Good night."  
  
"Night, dearest Brother." John likes to imagine that her goodbye sounded a bit warmer than usual. He can always hope.  
  
\--  
  
About an hour later, John hears Sherlock fiddling with the lock in a way that only happens when he has an arm full. John is at the door to help by the time Sherlock actually manages to conquer the doorknob. As he takes a bag from Sherlock, he realizes that he's somehow gotten accustomed to the idea of Sherlock buying groceries or take-out for dinner on a regular basis.  
  
John's coming to recognize the carefully neutral yet slightly warm look to Sherlock's face as of late as contentedness. John doesn't have the ego to believe that this has something to do with whatever Sherlock is planning concerning him, but he is naïve enough to hope a little bit. "You've been out for a while. Lestrade get you more information on the case?"  
  
"Just a bit, yes, but really nothing helpful. Anderson has a flawed perspective of what is classified under pertinent information." Sherlock leaves the conversation hanging for John to let continue. It's an unexpected habit that Sherlock has been picking up recently. In the beginning of their acquaintance-friendship-whatever, Sherlock had merely stated everything aloud and expected John to give his opinion. John almost misses that.  
  
"Ah, really? What did he pointlessly note while missing something else this time?" John's unfortunately picked up Sherlock's penchant for treating Anderson as an idiot. Really though, what sort of medical examiner fails to notice unassociated bleeding from the mouth and thus diagnosing a poisoning as a heart attack? Sure, the poison had been almost untraceable because it dissolved into the bloodstream quickly. But if Anderson had bothered to test the blood that the victim had coughed up, which had not had the chance to go through the bloodstream and thus wearing down the constituents of the poison, he would have found the chemical traces.  
  
Sherlock places out the dishes on the living room table -- the kitchen is currently an experiment on how anthrax could get into pre-sealed packages without leaving traces on the outside. As John sets out the food -- fish and chips, which John had be craving all day, oddly enough -- Sherlock tells his tale of Anderson's incompetence and general impeding on human progress. John is setting down the drinks and preparing to dive in to his dinner by the time Sherlock finishes with an emphatic, "Lestrade should really just fire him. You'd make an exponentially better medical examiner."  
  
John takes pause with a bit of cod half-way in his mouth. "I, ah, uhm, thank you, Sherlock." He doesn't bother to make the usual argument that he already has a job. It doesn't seem to fit the moment.  
  
"You're welcome," Sherlock responds in a matter-of-fact way as he politely chews on an individual chip.  
  
John is too comfortable in the moment to question Sherlock about his phone. He decides to put it off until a better time.  
  
\--  
  
It ends up coming out by accident two weeks later. If John is being honest, he would admit that he had gotten extremely irritated with his failing phone signal and had finally lashed out at Sherlock as he is practicing violin one evening. "Damn it all, Sherlock, couldn't you have chosen a better network? That's the fifth time a call has fallen through with my mother."  
  
The sudden lack of violin in the background is hauntingly quiet. John looks up from his phone to catch the fleeting end of a surprised look on Sherlock's face. Sherlock's expression calmly collapses back into its standard neutral stance. "Ah, you noticed that you switched mobile plans. I didn't realize the network had that many problems. I suppose rarely make an actual call and thus don't realize the signal problems. We can switch to another provider if it's become such an inconvenience for you. Would you like to switch back to the provider you shared with your sister? We can do that."  
  
John's not sure how to respond. "I, ah, yes, thank you, that'd be much more suitable. I, well, is the plan under your name? Are you - I suppose you're paying the mobile bill."  
  
A calm smirk is painted across Sherlock's lips. "I'll take care of it tomorrow. And yes, the plan is under my name and I am covering the bill."  
  
"I, ahm, why?" John vehemently insists his voice had not embarrassingly risen on the last word.  
  
The smirk grows. "It was more convenient."  
  
And that was the end of that.

 

* * *

  
**5.**  
  
John finally figures it out about a month later, which means that he actually got really lucky and the facts just fell down in front of him.  
  
\--  
  
Sherlock is on the phone with Mycroft, judging from the sounds of it. Sherlock also doesn't seem to realize that John has arrived at home.  
  
"I, agh, _yes_ , it is necessary that you find this information for me." Sherlock runs a rough hand through his hair in frustration. "Mycroft, you know I'd only ask you for something if I found it important. You know how much it _pains_ me even to call you." A pause. "Can't you ever be cooperative? I did help you with that case a few months ago. Okay, well, yes, John did the majority of the work but John wouldn't have done it if I hadn't delegated it to him. I -- no, no, I can't just ask him these things. I think he's starting to suspect something." A long-suffering sigh. "Fine, I'll watch those demons you call daughters if you do this for me." He grits his teeth. "What do you mean you don't know how I expect you to get this information? You have his military records. Just glance at his records and grab his uniform measurements for me. Yes, it matters that his clothes fit him perfectly. No, you don't get to have a say in what I'm buying for him. You dress like an old, fat man -- likely because you are an _old, fat man_ \-- and I am not subjecting John to your unfortunate taste." He seems to be derailed and stares into space for a few seconds. "No, no, I'm sorry. I apologize. Whole-heartedly. You are not an old, fat man. Yes, I'll play nice. I'll even take your daughters dress shopping, if you will please not destroy those records. _Please_." The look on his face is quite possibly one of the harshest glares John has ever seen him use. "Fine. Send Mummy my best. Yes, goodbye." He takes an apprehensive and slightly shaky breath in. "Thank you, Mycroft."  
  
This is just the first in a series of correspondences and it's also just the first of many unintentional clues for John.  
  
\--  
  
A day later, John is in the room when Sherlock's text message alert sounds and breaks the quiet of their after-dinner vegetation. Sherlock gropes around a bit before realizing that his phone is somehow on the armrest of John's seat rather than his. Sherlock states his name in increasingly whinier tones until John lifts the phone and reads the message aloud. "It's from Lestrade. Quote, 'I don't think yellow is his color. He seems to favor blues. Does buying clothes have something to do with the case?', unquote." John decides to play innocent for a bit and see if he can get anything out of Sherlock. "You're buying clothes for someone?"  
  
Sherlock's expression is decidedly very suspicious and he seems to squint at John, searching for something, but it doesn't seem he finds whatever that is. "I convinced a man to go undercover for me for the case." John would have believed him if he had not known Sherlock was definitely lying. The message Sherlock has been typing to Lestrade seems quite long to be stating anything that short.  
  
Another small clue for John.  
  
\--  
  
The next clue comes when John arrives late to a crime scene.  
  
"If he hasn't left you yet, I doubt he's going to be leaving at all." That's Donovan.  
  
"To you, Donovan, you don't _know_ that, and when did I even ask you for your opinion? You lower the IQ of everyone around you almost as much as Anderson. And you, Lestrade, who told you to share with your underlings? I shouldn't have even asked you. I am surrounded by incompetent fools. Why do I suffer myself through this?" Sherlock's voice is amazingly distressed.  
  
"What's this? Sherlock's actually worried his ittle John will leave him? He has lasted surprisingly longer than most others. What, it's been almost a year now?" And that would be Anderson. John has a bad feeling that Sherlock is about to snap.  
  
" _Anderson_ , if you would so kindly stop spreading the intellectual poison that is your voice, the world would be a much happier place. Donovan, why don't you stop using your legs for spreading and use them for walking back to the Yard to do research. Lestrade, you're the closest to intelligent here, keep your people under control." Sherlock's voice is very, very cold.  
  
Lestrade seems to stammer for a bit, before spitting out, "Anderson, shut up and do that blood test you wanted to do. Donovan, please go back to the Yard." He takes a pause for a deep breath. "Okay, Holmes, what have you got for me?"  
  
"We'll see once John gets here."  
  
John nearly takes that as his cue to enter, but then Lestrade says something. "Sherlock, I say this as much as I can as a friend, buying John things isn't going to keep him around longer. He isn't that type of person."  
  
John can practically hear the sardonic quirk on Sherlock's lips. "Detective Inspector, you must know by now, to an extent, everyone is that type of person."  
  
John waits another five minutes before entering the room.  
  
\--  
  
When Sherlock comes home with a well-wrapped package and a warm smile a week and a half later, John plays very well at being surprised. He doesn't have to act at being thankful. He does have to hold his tongue on saying anything more than thanks. It's not the right time to say anything yet.

 

* * *

  
**+1.**  
  
John finally decides to say something when they are out for dinner another month later.  
  
They have just closed a case the day before and have spent all of last night and today catching up on sleep. Luckily, it's a Sunday, which means the clinic isn't open and John got to spend all day napping, waking up to get a glass of water and maybe a cup of gelatin, and then more _glorious napping_. John assumes that Sherlock has at least gotten a significantly more than usual amount of sleep by the shrinking of the shadows in the hollows of his eyes.  
  
The sleep hasn't, however, seemed to help an increasing behavior of Sherlock's. He's taken to giving John relatively frequent and very much nervous glances, the sort of look that implies a sort of running out of time. Considering the conversation Lestrade had held with Sherlock that month ago, John supposes Sherlock would think he's running out of time. He's definitely gone beyond what John had ever thought possible at this point.  
  
Tonight, they're dining at an admittedly costly restaurant and, from everything John has observed, Sherlock doesn't know anyone here nor is he owed any favors from the owner or workers. That means that this outing will actually involve a bill, which is different enough already from their standard fare of eating at the closest restaurant that owes Sherlock a favor to wherever they happen to be in the city when they get hungry. That also means that said bill will be relatively expensive.  
  
John hadn't even been given a menu before Sherlock had ordered matching meals for both of them and a red wine that John recalls his over-indulgent great-aunt bringing over every Christmas dinner of his childhood. That wine has always been nowhere close to cheap. That's why John had gotten in so much trouble for spilling it one year. It doesn't detract from the warm and familiar feeling he gets every time he drinks it. He's starting to wonder if Sherlock somehow managed to dig up all of the little details like this or if it's just a coincidence. He's touched either way.  
  
Dinner is going well. Sherlock has steadily gotten less nervous -- John thinks the wine helps to loosen him, though it doesn't make him any less sharp and observant -- and their conversation has been not-constant but steady. John has to admit that Sherlock has excellent taste for a man who usually only eats under force or coercion. Does Sherlock know that John rather likes lamb? Does he also know that lamb is always served during Christmas in John's home? Did he pick the wine for that reason? It is getting closer to Christmas time and John rather likes the nostalgia.  
  
They finish their entrees at a sedate but matched pace and decide together on a chocolate-Bordeaux cake, which they share. John tries very hard not to think much of sharing a dessert with Sherlock. He also tries very hard not to think about the fact that Sherlock is very clearly matching John's bites with slightly smaller bites. John will enjoy this cake.  
  
And, really, everything goes perfectly fine until John attempts to wave down their waiter for the check. The young man -- probably a part-time worker, moonlighting to support his education -- is approaching as Sherlock coughs politely yet very pointedly, getting John's attention. "What are you doing?"  
  
John tries to keep his face neutral, pleasant. "Requesting the bill. You've been covering a lot of our expenses recently. It's the least I can do."  
  
Sherlock looks mildly stunned and just a tad upset for about a second before he snaps his face back into controlled impassiveness. "That's unnecessary. I gave them my card upon entering." He coolly waves off the approaching waiter, who simply shrugs and turns to another table.  
  
"Wh- when did you manage that, exactly? We entered at the _same time_ and I didn't see you give them your card," John practically sputters. He had purposely been watching to prevent such a thing from happening.  
  
Sherlock is no longer meeting John's eyes. "I gave the maitre d' my card as you had the doorman take our coats." He pauses, considers. "You seem a bit upset. I don't understand why you'd be upset."  
  
John tries very hard not to glare at Sherlock, though he's fairly certain he fails. "We're not talking about this here, Sherlock. Since our meal is apparently already paid, we are catching a cab, _on my money_ , and we are going back to the flat to discuss this." John very determinedly rises, but Sherlock remains very decidedly seated. He's taken an interest to a singular drop of wine of the lip of his glass. "Well, are you coming or not?"  
  
"You're making a scene. You hate making scenes. Why are you doing this?" Sherlock mutters despondently to himself. "Besides, why should I go? Just to watch you leave? They only refuse gifts when they want to leave. Should've known it'd happen soon. Likely why you cut things off with that Sarah woman."  
  
John cringes just slightly at the mention of Sarah and sits back down. If that is what Sherlock thinks is the reason John has stopped seeing Sarah, John has clearly done a bad job at making his intentions with Sherlock very clear. John does have to admit that he has been slightly purposely toeing the line of ambiguity.  
  
"Sherlock, please," he just barely pleads --he has some dignity after all --, "get up, we'll go home, and we can talk about this a bit more. I can promise you now that I am not leaving anything other than this restaurant, hopefully with you in tow."  
  
John receives a cautious glance and minute nod in response before they both rise, retrieve their jackets, and hail down a cab.  
  
\--  
  
The cab ride home is tense and the driver continually shoots glances through the rearview mirror as if the pair are going to do something violent at any moment. With the combination of Sherlock's glare at the front passenger seat and John's grim frown, John supposes the cabbie isn't making an entirely unfair judgment. It doesn't make John feel any better though.  
  
The moment they both step into 221b Baker Street, however, things seem to lift rather significantly. John breathes a sigh of relief and turns to Sherlock. "Sit down. I'm making us tea and we're talking this out until we run out of hot water at least." Sherlock is frighteningly obedient in that moment, sitting calmly in his usual arm chair and watching John like a school child awaiting instruction.  
  
When John's in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson bustles in and tries to insist that she should make the tea for them, but John holds his ground for once and rushes her out the door as politely as he can manage.  
  
Some eight minutes later, there's a tray holding an array of tea satchels, hot water, milk, sugar, and honey on a table John has pushed over in front of Sherlock's arm chair. John has pulled the desk chair over and is sitting at Sherlock's elbow, decidedly beside him rather than across from him. They both assemble their cuppas silently. John chooses an apple spice satchel, adds a touch of milk and honey, and blows over it as he stirs for good measure. Sherlock takes a black tea and adds a spoon of sugar; he has the slightest and most covert sweet tooth that John finds so difficult not to encourage.  
  
John lets his flatmate enjoy a few calm sips before diving into the conversation. "Sherlock, I know you're expecting me to leave. From what I've observed, you seem to think you can buy me into staying longer. Am I correct?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes stay steadfastly on his teacup. "You are." He clearly intends to give no more than that.  
  
John goes ahead and carries through. "From what I've caught in pieces here and there, it seems you're not used to any, ah, companions staying very long. In fact, Anderson seems to think I've, er, lasted the longest." John pauses to see if Sherlock has anything to add, but he merely murmurs an affirmative. "Ah, okay then. Ahm, I don't really know how to go forward with this. I can't say I know what the circumstances were before, but I can say for myself now that I have no intentions of leaving Baker Street unless you request that I leave."  
  
John lets a wide smile spread his lips as Sherlock looks up swiftly. Their eyes meet for a scant few seconds before Sherlock breaks line again. "Surely you don't mean that. I know I'm not easy to live with. I am admittedly obsessive, very much unhealthy in my habits, surely a hassle to live with much less look after. I shot a smiley face into the wall, out of _boredom_. Truly, you'd be glad to be rid of me. I've gotten you stuck at crime scenes, shot at, kidnapped, strapped to a bomb, and countless other things that you can't possibly want to put up with. Normal people do not do this. I am not your average imbecile-err-man, but I know that the average man does not wish to put up with this." He manages to hold his gaze again and he looks so distressed that John can't help the way he tuts at him.  
  
Sherlock's teacup is removed from his now-shaking hands, which are then pulled into John's significantly steadier pair. "If I'd had a real problem with any of this, I'd have left by now and I'd have complained much more than I have. Though, I have complained a tad here and there. We're all given an allowance of whininess I suppose." The smile on his face has stayed steady and has grown steadily warmer. "You've not gotten rid of me yet, Mr. Holmes."  
  
The glimmer in Sherlock's eyes is just a bit this side of hopeful and it warms much more than John's smile. "I'm not good at these things. I push people away. I only know how to buy people things as apology or what is essentially bribing. I'm not even certain what you want from me at this point. I'm inexperienced in affection and I'm not certain if I've ever been sexually attracted to anyone. But I'll do anything within the logical confines of what you'd like and as long as I have cases to solve I can promise I won't be too difficult."  
  
John just laughs.  
  
They stay up discussing their latest case in retrospect and end up falling asleep in their chairs, hands still linked.  
  
John calls in a sick day for the first time in the year he's been at 221b Baker Street. He wonders if Sherlock knows that today is their pseudo-anniversary.  
  
\--  
  
When the phone bill comes in a few days later, they have a dispute over why John can't at least cover the cost of their mobiles. (He also plans to commandeer responsibility of the groceries again. But that's also partially because John is fairly certain he couldn't possibly run out of gelatin again in his life.)  
  
Sherlock insists that because it is already under his name and already linked to his bank account John shouldn't complicate affairs by trying to change it. John responds that he doesn't like the idea of being a kept man, to which Sherlock laughs rather heartily. "If you were a kept man, I'd already have _forced_ you to quit working. I have _only_ been insistently suggesting that you leave your job at the clinic."  
  
John rolls his eyes fondly and decides to let this one go. He'll make sure to get the groceries.  
  
The whole conversation, however, reminds John of something else that had occurred to him over the whole "billing ordeal", as John has come to call it. "Sherlock, just out of curiosity, where are you getting all of the money to pay for everything, exactly? You never seem to accept compensation for anything we do outside of helping Scotland Yard, and Scotland Yard most definitely does not offer you any money any time we've worked with them."  
  
Sherlock's tell-tale smirk is stretching the right corner of his lips. "Actually, Scotland Yard has officially had me on payroll since that case you so quaintly named 'A Study in Pink'. Also, Mycroft owes us quite a bit for the cases here and there that we've taken up for him. He wires me the money in weekly chunks to insure I don't spend it all in one go. He's the more frivolous with money of the two of us, but he presumes and projects his unfortunate habits on myself. He's certainly taught his offspring some awful spending habits." Sherlock actually seems to shiver at the thought of his nieces. "I take it by now that you know of the unfortunate dress shopping trip I promised to those miniature hellspawn. Now that, my dear Watson, was a true 'Study in Pink'."  
  
They share a laugh and steadily taper of to their previous activities.  
  
At some point, either Sherlock's hand or John's hand seems to drift to the other. John figures he can type relatively well with just his right hand. Sherlock is managing painting amazingly well with just his left.  
  
 **End.**


End file.
